Chapter Text
Gloomy, in Jaskier’s opinion, didn’t quite cover the severity of just how much the weather had decided to ruin his night. Perhaps earlier in the day, when he had inquired distractedly to a bored barmaid of the clouds creeping over the trees, gloomy had been apt. The air was a touch chilly, thicker and more pungent than usual with the promise of rain-- but the deception those innocuous clouds had pulled… As it stood, he was soaked down to his undergarments, cold, and the little mare under him was becoming increasingly distraught over their predicament. She tossed her golden head at a sudden gust of wind, pale, wet mane whipping at Jaskier’s shivering fingers as he hushed her in the sing song voice she liked.
“Yes, yes Buttercup-- I know it’s less than ideal.” He soothed, partially to himself. “We should have stayed the night, you were right-- again .” If he wasn’t miles from their previous destination, he would try to turn course, if only to save them the misery. “The next village is close, if that man-- unreliable as he seemed-- is… reliable in his directions.” His voice grew small towards the end of his sentence. “ But ,” he tried to perk back up, “once we’re there, you’ll get a brush down, and it’s one more beautiful , sunny ride to Oxenfurt!”
The next few minutes weren't quite unbearable. Buttercup’s spirits seemed buoyed by the word brush , and the squall tempered its raging wind for the time being.
So the limb of a tree immediately ahead shaking rather violently was terribly out of place, and Buttercup rightfully flinched at it, and threw her head back in alarm. He took a tighter hold on her reins, voice a pitch higher as he called for her to relax. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, and he blinked as that drop of water morphed into a dark figure in the muddy road. Another appeared behind it, and then a second, and Jaskier had a very distinct sinking feeling in his gut. He swallowed, hard, and turned Buttercup ninety or so degrees to address the strangers from her side.
“Good sirs!” They were certainly… men, tall and wide in their stature, and advancing. “I’ve found myself turned around in this awful storm,” his voice wasn’t particularly confident, and the rain drowned it out, “and I was hoping to know the distance to the nearest town! I was told…”
The man behind the leader looked awfully familiar, and Jaskier could remember his smell. Piss, and stale mead. It was the same man that had pointed him down the narrower path, and that sinking feeling became all consuming as realization set in. He’d been played, thoroughly , and his space on the board was quickly running out.
He made to turn Buttercup around, but another man immediately behind him-- when had someone else snuck up on them - had her jerking in fright, and he struggled to calm her. The saddle was wet under him, and the trees and brush were suffocating in their density. “Oh fuck,” he cursed, whipping his head to and fro, “oh fuck , Buttercup, do hang on.” A ridiculous statement he could laugh at later, telling his horse to get a grip, considering his feet were slipping in the metal stirrups, and he felt incredibly unsteady--
He bolted. He kicked his heels against Buttercup’s sides, and charged at the group of men blocking his path, fully intent on running them down to get away. Only his horse hesitated, a gentle soul, and one of the men was quick with his hands. It grappled for a hold on Jaskier’s jacket, fist tight and wrinkling the already ruined top as he tried to rip him right from his saddle. He reacted purely on instinct, and his free arm reached for the one thing he could access quickly, and easily-- the lute strapped to his back. It snapped free, and he brought it down upon his attackers head with such a satisfying whack , that he couldn’t feel remorse in him for breaking his instrument-- yet .
Oh he’d be absolutely raging later, moaning and crying over her remains, but at the moment, all he could do was pull himself free with a curse, and a tug. Another hand shot out, and he swung what was left of his lute at him too, spitting some truly foul words in his desperation. Buttercup lurched, panicking herself from all the noise and shouting, and finally, really bucked.
With his hands free of the reins, and his balance already off from his mock sword fight, Jaskier tumbled from the saddle like a sack of potatoes. It was nearly enough to knock the wind from him. He ducked to cover his head as hooves stomped next to his ear, and flinched at the mud that splattered across his face. His hands grappled for the knife strapped to his thigh. If there was one thing he could thank that mean hearted, ungrateful bastard for, then--
A scream, gurgling and putrid, split open the curtain of rain, and it was suddenly dreadfully quiet. He heard one of the men curse, and he rolled to the side as Buttercup’s hooves came down with more urgency. In the panic, he watched as one of the strangers clambered onto his horse, and he scrambled to his feet. “Bastard!” He yelled, blade held out like he’d been shown. “Get your rotten arse down from my mount!”
Jaskier couldn’t fault her for the way she took off. He would too given the circumstances-- especially as they soured right before his very eyes. The men not clinging to his horse for dear life took off into the brush with little hesitation, and he watched the braided tail of his beloved horse disappear into the black night at a fearful gallop. The trail was empty. It was just himself, and the steady pattering of fat raindrops. He kept his tense, defensive stance, breath heavy and body thrumming with adrenaline-- and felt it grow impossibly cold at the low growl he heard behind him. He swallowed, and didn’t need to turn to know what it was. He’d heard it many times before in his travels with…
A ghoul.
He turned his head anyway, and could only make out the shape of it. He knew what they looked like, though, and its disgusting physique was recreated by his imagination. Grey, sickly skin that was pruning, and still somehow slimy and bloated… with long, bony limbs and deceptively strong, devastating claws despite its exposed, dissolving muscle tissue. Its eyes were wide, glowing, and fixated solely on him. Didn’t they normally travel in packs? It crept closer on all fours, stalking him, and Jaskier felt complete and absolute terror. His feet wouldn’t work. In his mind’s eye, he screamed and thrashed and swung blindly with his blade-- but he didn’t move. It inched nearer still, and for an agonizing second Jaskier was convinced that a silver sword would glint in the moonlight, shiny and oiled for the fight, and save him. Another step, and he knew it wasn’t to be.
He was alone, as he had been for damn near a year, and it was up to him to survive.
A distant whinny made the ghoul pause, attention stolen for a mere second, and Jaskier finally jolted himself into motion. He took off into the forest. It gave chase with a shrill cry, unfairly fast, but hindered just as much by the snapping branches. Thankfully beneath the canopy of trees, the ground wasn’t nearly as sodden as the road had been, and the tread of his new boots kept him from slipping in the leaves and moss. Still, the creature was gaining on him, clearly too hungry to toy with its food. Jaskier leapt over a twisting root, only to stumble on the next. He righted himself with a heavy hand on a skinny pine sapling, and quickly changed direction to leap over a full creek. The pebbles were smooth and loose from many, many years of running water, and made him fumble for a precious second, as he swung his arms to regain his balance. The beast drew ever closer, and Jaskier gripped the dagger tighter in his hand. If he had to turn and fight, he knew to slash for the throat- maybe the stomach if he got pinned down and was being mauled by its claws.
The trees were thinning around him, but in the downpour, it was hard to make out much of anything until it was directly on top of him. Thunder cracked above, and echoed down into the valley that was quickly becoming his final stop. That dreadful screech was closer, and he swore he could feel a hot, rank breath against his ankles.
He ran, and kept running-- until the trees opened themselves further, and those terrible, rotten hands didn’t grab him like he was expecting. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and only faltered in his stride when he realized that there was no mass on his heels. He slowed to a stop, chest heaving for breath, and turned. It was sitting at the edge of the thicker foliage, hunched and staring at him with those horrible, tiny glowing dots, but it didn’t move any closer. It just stared, and gurgled. Jaskier swallowed against the ache in his ribs and throat, and backed up a few paces, unable to tear his eyes from the creature. He kept walking, until suddenly the rain stopped its ceaseless beating on his head, and there was something solid against his back. It stared, but began to slip into the brush next to it. Jaskier’s fingers met with wood, obviously constructed, and with a glance up, determined that there was a slight overhang of a roof above him.
This was someone’s home, a stranger’s backyard.
The ghoul dissolved into the night, and Jaskier blinked, hands beginning to shake. It obviously refused to come any closer- and that only meant one thing. Another monster, bigger and badder, had established a territory here.
Heart in his throat, Jaskier made his feet step over one another, walking sideways so that the wall was at his back, and he could see into the forest ahead. He followed the curve of the home, and prayed to several gods that the door wasn’t locked, there wasn’t a worse creature of some kind knitting inside, and that it didn’t belong to one of the pricks who’d tried to rob him. Given how they’d all turned tail at the sight of the ghoul, he doubted the third option to be true. There were no flames alive in the house he determined, as he passed by a shuttered window. Either it was vacant, or the owner was asleep. There was a petite vegetable patch at the front of the hut, so perhaps they were farmers that had gone to bed early for work in the morning. A nice peasant couple would be absolutely fabulous, a bit older, and maybe missing their daughter that had just wed and moved away; more than happy to give him some food, because they still prepared an extra plate out of habit.
The fantasy melted away as Jaskier reached the door, and felt it push open at the feather light touch of his fingers. Eerie, and already creeping him out. Excellent. It was dark, and cold, and smelled of leather and dirt. He stepped inside, dripping onto uneven flooring, and couldn’t decide whether to chance it in the monster surrounded, empty shack, or back out on the trail that couldn’t be too much farther from a town, and even better, an inn. With people, and booze, and a bath--
There was a presence at his back, suddenly. “Who are you,” a voice growled, deep and angry, “and what are you doing here?”
Jaskier’s entire body tensed like a bow string, before on some stupid cornered animal instinct, he whipped around with the knife out in his hand. The man in the doorway nearly filled it completely, shoulders within an inch of touching the frame, and hooded in a way that screamed evil, hulking wizard. Jaskier’s wrist- the one holding the dagger-- was snatched with lightning fast reflexes, and he found himself disarmed before he could blink. His arm was wrenched to the side, and his body flipped around as if it weighed nothing by an upsetting display of strength. He was slammed into the shack wall immediately to his left, making his head ring like a bell from the impact. He gasped for a deep breath, and cried out in pain as his wrist creaked painfully-- a simple flick away from being broken in what could be several places.
“Answer me!” That voice was in his ear, full of rage, and sounding ready to rip his throat out. “You’re with the bandits troubling the town?” Something sharp dug into his back-- his knife-- and Jaskier finally squawked out a reply.
“No!” He wailed. “No, no!” He shook his head as best he could from where an elbow was smashing it into a log. “My name is Jaskier-- Dandelion-- I was--”
“Why were you coming into my home armed?” His attacker pressed harder, barked into his ear painfully close.
Oh-- this was upsetting him. “If you would let me fucking explain! ” He snapped ferociously, near spitting from a sudden and hot lance of anger, and felt the agonizing grip on his wrist lessen ever so slightly. “I was traveling to Oxenfurt, was given bad directions, robbed of my horse, and nearly eaten by some pissing and shitting ghoul!” He poured his emotions into the wood, voice rising as he continued. “I’m lost, I’m absolutely terrified , and now I’m being strangled by some weird, gargantuan man in a hood!”
Was he acting hysterical? Yes. Was it getting him results? Also yes, because finally all that weight smashing him into the wall was gone, and he stumbled a step back, rubbing at his wrist. His head was pounding where it had struck the wood, and he was sure a handsome lump was steadily forming right above his eye. Something wet, and hot made him reach up to his lip, and he quickly discovered that his nose was bleeding. “Bloody fucking hell,” he moaned, and tilted his head back, “you’ve the strength of a beast-- surely you aren’t the meek farmer living here.”
A tense beat passed, until a long flash of lightning fell through the window, and lit up the inside of the tiny abode. In that impossible instant, Jaskier got a look at who had nearly ended his career. He was tall, imposing in a way that seemed unnatural, very likely well muscled beneath the full body cloak he wore. The flame flickered, revealing a brown, scraggly beard long overdue for grooming, hair spilling from the hood over his head, and--
Oh, dear.
Yellow, slightly glowing eyes glared down at him, pupils dilated from the late hour, but undoubtedly cat like in how they were slitted. Suddenly, Jaskier was very, very far away. In a nameless tavern at the edge of what felt like the world, and staring into a very similar pair of eyes. He swallowed. That trail of blood from his nose slid down his chin, and onto the floor in neat little drops. Realization hit him just as the answering boom of thunder rumbled outside.
“...You’re a Witcher.” He murmured, tongue feeling thick and clumsy.
The other man’s eyes narrowed with an emotion he couldn’t read.
“The bandits–- how many?” He asked, looming, and looking somehow bigger in that instance.
Jaskier blinked. “Just… just the four.” He followed the other man with his eyes as he crossed the tiny home, and rifled through a box, or a chest. It was dark, and Jaskier didn’t have mutagenic sight. He couldn’t reliably tell. “May I have my knife back?” He asked, afraid to approach and either trip, or be bodied into the floor.
The Witcher ignored him. “The town is a mile down the path from here.” He rumbled, and strode to the door. With a practiced flick of his wrist, and a silent snap of his fingers, a candle across the room burst into light. “Go, now.”
For just a beat, Jaskier was speechless. Then, he huffed. “You’d send me back out there? With those monsters, and the bandits, and the pouring, freezing rain? Defenseless-- which, by the way, that dagger was a gift, and I would very, very much like to have it back.” He raised an accusatory finger, feet stubbornly still as he glared up at the behemoth before him. “I think that’s particularly unreasonable, and quite cruel, and you have no right keeping my one weapon when I’m positive you have at least two more that are much larger.”
There was a tense silence.
Suddenly, the other man raised his arm, and Jaskier’s knife flew by his head to embed itself in the wall behind him. To his credit, he didn’t flinch–- mostly because it all happened too quickly for him to react. He released a shaky breath, and hoped that not all Witchers had sympathy mutated out of them.
“You’ll take it when you leave in the morning.” The other man said, quietly. He passed by Jaskier to the door, and opened it to step outside.
“Wait–-” For some reason, Jaskier reached out his hand to stop him. “Who are you?” He asked.
There was no answer. The strange Witcher fixed him with a slightly suspicious glare, and promptly disappeared into the rain. The door swung shut behind him, and Jaskier was left alone in the empty hut with nothing but his soaked clothes, too many questions, and a candle at the end of its wick.